


Ask Me No Questions (And I'll Tell You No Lies)

by rsconne



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: And Lexa has a sexy brain, Clarke is a flirt, Clexa Week, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Light Angst, Nerd!Lexa, Pining, Rivals, Secret Nerd!Clarke, Secret Relationship, Smut, Sort Of, trivia au, with a weakness for flannel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 08:17:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13830150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rsconne/pseuds/rsconne
Summary: Clarke rejoins her trivia team after a long hiatus and discovers that her team's main competition is an attractive woman at the bar who beats them all by herself.  Color Clarke intrigued....Or, the Bar Trivia AU that not a single person asked for.Clexa Week Day 5: Rivals in a Secret Relationship





	Ask Me No Questions (And I'll Tell You No Lies)

Clarke walked into Trikru Pub and scanned the crowded room for her friends. Trivia night was usually a big draw. She spotted them at a large table and made her way across the room. She slid into an empty seat beside Octavia and unwound her scarf. "Hi, guys!"

Octavia squealed with joy.  “Clarke! You made it!” She engulfed Clarke in an excited hug.

Clarke squeezed her back and smiled fondly.  “Hey, O!”  She looked down the table and waved a hello at the rest of her friends.  A chorus of jovial greetings answered her.  Their motley crew had expanded in fits and starts over the years, so that by now, she hardly remembered how they’d met.  She’d practically grown up with Octavia and her older brother, Bellamy, the neighbor kids around the corner.  Harper and Raven came along in college, the results of serendipitous roommate matching, followed in close succession by Octavia’s boyfriend, Lincoln, and his friend, Luna.  As for the others—Monty, Jasper, and Echo among them—it would take a whiteboard diagram to sort out the who-met-who-where-and-whens.  When it came right down to it, the thread that bound them all together was that they were all misfit toys in one way or another, and Clarke wouldn’t have had it any other way.        

A little burst of happiness warmed Clarke as she fell back into the rhythm of their conversation and sarcastic repartee.  She saw Octavia, Lincoln, and Raven pretty regularly, but she hadn’t gotten to hang out with the whole crew at once for a long time.  Her work schedule—among other things—had been erratic for the last several months, and she hadn’t made it to trivia night since her friends had switched to a new venue sometime last fall.  Octavia been nagging her to come out for a while, but her pleading had reached new heights in the last few weeks.  Clarke knew Octavia genuinely missed her company, but she suspected the recent urgency of her entreaties had to do with Raven’s temporary absence on an out-of-town work assignment.  Raven was their trivia team’s science guru.  And Octavia did not like to lose. 

Service was a little slow due to the large, crowded tables, but once Clarke’s beer finally arrived, Octavia insisted on a toast.  They all clinked glasses and Octavia crowed, “I can feel it, y’all, now that Clarke’s here, tonight is gonna be our night!”  

Clarke tried to downplay her expectations.  “I’m just here to have fun, you guys are way better at this than I am,” she hedged. 

“Don’t give me that ‘I just want to have fun’ crap,” Octavia mimicked her, scoffing.  “I was there, I saw how ticked you were when we came in fourth at the citywide tournament last summer.”

Clarke groaned.  “ _God_ , I still can’t believe we lost by two points!  All because of that damn Hall and Oates question.”  Fine, so maybe she was still a little salty. 

Octavia smirked.  “See?  You don’t like losing any more than I do.”  Clarke scowled in grudging admission.  “But now we’ve got the band back together,” Octavia enthused.  “Bell and Lincoln are good for history and geography—” the two men bumped fists with feigned gravity—“I’ve got sports, Harper and Luna know pop culture, and now that we’ve got our science and art ringer back, we’re gonna be unstoppable!”

Clarke sipped her beer.  “I’m hardly a ringer, O,” she objected. “Dropped out of med school, remember?”

“Whatever, Clarke,” Bellamy scoffed with an eyeroll.  “We suck at science.  We haven’t gotten a single science question right since Raven’s been gone.  And for God’s sake, don’t tell her I said that, we’ll never hear the end of it,” he said quickly as they all laughed.  “Seriously, you can only help us.  Maybe we’ll have a shot at beating Barbie Liberation again,” he added. 

Clarke looked perplexed.  “Barbie Liberation?”

Octavia nodded toward the bar.  “The girl at the bar.  That’s just her team name, her actual name is Lexa.”  Clarke blinked and did a double take at Octavia, then craned her neck for a glimpse of wavy, brown hair pulled up in a ponytail and slim shoulders clad in a blue plaid flannel. 

“Wait, she’s a one person team?” Clarke asked, a puzzled frown creasing her forehead.  Octavia nodded.  “And she beats you?” 

Octavia’s lips thinned in a tight line.  Lincoln grinned at her evident annoyance and answered for her.  “Yep.  Well, not always,” he allowed.  “Sometimes we luck out and there’s no science questions.  And Beer Machine is usually in the mix,” he said, nodding at a table of thirty-something hipster nerds across the room.  “There’s a few other regulars who turn up.  But she’s usually in the top three.” 

“But she’s going down tonight,” Octavia proclaimed confidently.  Harper and Echo whooped cheerfully and the three of them high-fived.  Clarke narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, but said nothing. 

The trivia emcee at the bar read out the rules and the opening round categories, and the game commenced.  Clarke normally avoided being the runner charged with turning in answers if she could, but tonight she volunteered to take up more than her share.  She let her friends think she was just being a team player, but really she just wanted the opportunity to eyeball the competition.  She dawdled by the bar as she handed in the slips of paper, sneaking sideways glances at messy tendrils of hair falling past her opponent’s delicate ears, the strong sweep of her jaw, the clench of her white teeth as she chewed pensively on the tip of her pen.  Each time, Clarke willed the girl to take notice of her, but she seemed absorbed in composing her own answer, texting on her phone, or, inexplicably, watching the mixed pairs curling competition on the overhead television.  

Judging from the other girl’s body language, she wasn’t deliberately ignoring Clarke, she was genuinely oblivious to her presence.  The lack of attention still rankled, and Clarke resolved to draw the pretty girl out.  She left her team to deliberate the halftime bonus question—name four of the five states that joined the Union in the twentieth century, a question she was utterly useless on—and sidled up to the bar near the woman’s elbow.  She passed her empty glass across the bar and signaled for the bartender.  “I’ll have another Hop Dang Diggity,” she asked, putting a little extra rasp in her already husky voice. 

Clarke felt, rather than saw, shoulders stiffen next to her and the woman finally turned her head to look at Clarke directly.  Her eyes widened and her jaw worked soundlessly.  “What are you—”

Clarke cut her off before she could get the rest of her sentence out.  “Barbie Liberation, huh?”  Clarke angled her body toward her, her own eyes twinkling with amusement.  She was secretly pleased that she’d randomly chosen to wear the dark blue v-neck sweater that made her boobs look nice.  From the expression on her opponent’s face and the way her eyes tracked downward before shooting back up, the outfit was having the desired effect. 

Clarke had to admire how quickly she reclaimed her mask of authority.  “Barbie Liberation _Army_ , actually,” she corrected smoothly.

Clarke raised her eyebrows in mock apology.  “Barbie Liberation Army of one?  There’s gotta be a story there.  I’m Clarke, by the way.” 

“Lexa.”  Lexa’s dancing green eyes drew Clarke in so that she almost missed the sly curl at the corner of Lexa’s mouth.  “Yeah, there was this group called the Barbie Liberation Organization back in the 90s.  They’d go to toy stores and buy the talking GI Joe and Barbie dolls, swap out the voiceboxes, and then return them.  So Barbie would say stuff like, ‘Rawr, kill,’ and GI Joe would say, ‘Math is hard, let’s go shopping.’”  Clarke smiled at her affected Valley Girl accent.  Lexa smiled with her and shrugged.  “Anyway, Army sounded cooler.”  She changed the subject.  “So what team are you with?  I haven’t seen you in here before, _Clarke_.”  She drank her beer and looked at Clarke expectantly.

Clarke grinned and hooked a thumb at her friends.  “I’m with Team Grounder Pounder.”  Her eyes darkened with mischief and she edged in, so close that her warm breath caressed Lexa’s cheek.  “They said to tell you that you’re going down tonight,” she whispered impishly.        

At that, Lexa accidentally swallowed her beer down the wrong pipe and choked.  Clarke patted her on the back, simultaneously sorry for her discomfort, but delighted at throwing the collected woman for a loop.  Clarke’s hand rested lightly on Lexa’s back, unconsciously rubbing calming patterns over the soft flannel even after her coughing paroxysm passed.  Once Lexa regained her breath and the red faded from her face, she quirked an eyebrow at the contact.  Clarke hastily lifted her hand, her own cheeks pinking at the solid warmth under her hand and her reflexive urge to soothe. She collected her fresh beer and said, “Anyway, good luck.  I should let you get back to it so you can turn in your halftime answer.”

Lexa cocked her head to the side and her smug grin returned.  “What, _that_ question?” she asked innocently.  “Oh, that was easy, I turned it in five minutes ago.”  Her grin broadened as Clarke huffed away in amused exasperation.    

Clarke vindicated her teammates’ faith in the second half with the correct answer to a periodic table question—which are the only two elements that end in ‘y?’—and high-fives ensued around the table.  She preened just a little and peeked across the room to catch warm green eyes watching her in the mirror over the bar. 

Team Grounder Pounder managed to hold their own for the rest of the game, but as her teammates had predicted, Barbie Liberation still pulled out the win on the final bonus question.  While the rest of her team alternately lamented the loss (Octavia) or celebrated their second place bar cash prize (everyone else), Clarke tipped her glass at Lexa in a little salute and polished off her drink.  Lexa gave her a small smile and a tiny nod in return.    

*********

Clarke found herself enjoying trivia more in the next several weeks than she had in years (because despite her self-deprecation to Octavia, she was an unabashed trivia ~~junkie~~ ~~fiend~~ aficionado).  It was partly the release of spending time with her friends again and partly the rush of competition.  But the thrill of those green eyes challenging her made the contest that much sweeter.  She spent more and more time at the bar chatting with Lexa and relishing their charged repartee.  Lexa won—or at least placed—more often than her own team, to the point that Clarke finally snarked at her, “Damn, Lex, you’re the New England Patriots of trivia.” 

Lexa glared daggers at her and shot back in mock annoyance, “You wash your mouth out with soap for that!”  The growl in her voice sent a bolt of heat right between Clarke’s legs and she bit her lip to contain a tiny shudder.  The retort backfired on Lexa: fired with the power of suggestion, her gaze dipped to Clarke’s bite-reddened lower lip and lodged there.  Clarke smirked at her unapologetic stare and was leaning in with a dirty quip when her teammates’ urgent clamor for her broke through their exchange.  She couldn’t resist a wink and a grin of filthy promise as she backed away.

Much as Clarke wanted the win for her team, she was surprisingly pleased—happy, even—on the evenings that Barbie Liberation took the top prize.  She’d never admit it to her teammates, but Lexa’s cool prowess in singlehandedly demolishing the competition turned her on.  Clarke told herself that her reaction was only natural: Lexa had a seriously sexy brain to go with her devastating good looks.  But she wasn’t being fully honest with herself, because the intense focus on Lexa’s face in a tight match, her excited little fist pump, and the brilliant sparkle of her eyes when she answered correctly and won the day tugged at Clarke in ways that she refused to acknowledge.  And Clarke wasn’t above helping her at times.  As she turned in her team’s answer to a celebrities question—Lexa’s Achilles’ heel—Clarke could tell from Lexa’s furrowed frown that she was stumped by what geographic location Posh Spice’s first child was named for.  Clarke didn’t stop to think about the implications (although Grounder Pounder was so far out of the running that night it wouldn’t have mattered).  “ _Brooklyn_ ,” she gritted out of the corner of her mouth, turning back toward her table.  Octavia would have had her head if she’d known, but the grateful smile and the slight nod of acknowledgment on Lexa’s face was worth it. 

 

But even though Clarke might quietly root for—or even blatantly assist—her rival on occasion, she still played to win.  She gloried in victory the night Grounder Pounder finally took first, on a science question that she’d been so confident on that she’d pressured Bellamy and the others to bet their full point allowance.  It should have told her something that the pride of winning the actual prize paled in comparison to Lexa’s sweet smile of genuine respect and congratulations and the little toast she raised from across the room. 

Clarke also wasn’t above playing a little dirty if it helped her cause.  Noting Lexa’s reaction to her sweater that first evening, she took devious delight in choosing low-cut tops that clung to her curves and displayed a little more cleavage than a friendly game of bar trivia warranted.  Lexa swallowed heavily and her fingers convulsed around her pen the night Clarke wore a short, tartan skirt with a fitted black top and black boots.  She felt Lexa’s eyes bore into her every time she crossed the room, and she put a little extra swing in her hips and a flirty grin on her face.  On one of her trips to the bar, Lexa finally laid a gentle hand on her arm and murmured, “I know what you’re doing.” 

Clarke batted her eyes, the picture of unconvincing innocence, even as her blood thundered from the heat of Lexa’s hand on her skin.  “Yeah?  What am I doing?” 

Lexa ignored her sass.  The caress of her thumb raised goosebumps on Clarke’s arm, a touch so light it might have seemed an idle afterthought, but for the knowing flick of Lexa’s eyebrow.  “Don’t start a game you can’t win,” Lexa warned ominously.  Her eyes darkened and slowly raked up and down Clarke’s figure.  Clarke subtly pressed her thighs together to contain the delicious throb at her core.  Not trusting herself to speak, she still dared to pick up Lexa’s glass and steal a drink of her beer before she sauntered on unsteady legs back to her seat.

  *********

Octavia proclaimed the following week to be Grounder Pounder’s “throwdown night”: the night they blew all their accumulated bar cash in one fell, debauched swoop.  The team hadn’t taken the top award that often, but their second and third place prizes added up to a respectable chunk of change, even split among more than half a dozen people.  It promised to be an evening of liquid hedonism.

By the time Clarke arrived, her teammates had already downed a round of shots and reduced the first pitcher of beer to foam dregs.  She greeted her friends—already a little louder than usual, and trivia hadn’t even begun—and took the empty pitcher to the bar to snag a refill.  She swiveled her head around, crestfallen that Lexa wasn’t in her usual spot.  It wasn’t like her to be this late, and Clarke leaned on one elbow and drummed moody fingers on the bar, fretting at the possibility that she might not show. 

The bartender had just set a fresh pitcher and a stack of clean glasses in front of her when the door swung open again.  Later, Clarke would be relieved that she hadn’t picked them up yet, because Lexa was striding across the room like she owned the place and _holy shit_.  Her weathered, black motorcycle jacket swung open over her red plaid flannel.  Its top buttons were undone, revealing the divot of her collarbones and a provocative tease of the softer curves below.  Her tight, black skinny jeans molded to her ass and accentuated her lithe legs.  She usually wore her hair up, but tonight it flowed past her shoulders in waves, crowned by a black beanie.  A mischievous smirk played at her lips and broadened as Clarke’s eyes widened to saucers.  She shrugged out of her jacket and draped it over the back of her bar stool, then casually pulled off her beanie and shook out her hair, carding her fingers through the curls to give them some volume.  Only then did she slide into her seat and chirp nonchalantly, “Hey, Clarke.”

Clarke’s throat bobbed as she took in the whole tableau: the vivid gleam of green, the soft fall of honey-brown hair, the rolled-up sleeves and firm, smooth muscle of Lexa’s forearms (because _of course_ she would have her sleeves rolled up, Clarke thought wildly).  Her eyes lit on the golden skin peeking through Lexa’s ripped denim and Clarke struggled to stave off all-too-welcome visions of those sleek limbs tangled with her own.  Her tongue darted out to moisten suddenly-dry lips.  “Well played, Woods,” she said faintly, not even trying to disguise her appreciation. Lexa’s smirk grew to a full-fledged grin.  Clarke was too flustered to think coherently, much less make conversation.  Fortunately for her, the trivia host announced the start of the game.  Clarke stammered out “Good luck” to Lexa and hurried back to her table in a daze.   

The Grounder Pounders grew progressively drunker and rowdier with each round of questions, but Clarke herself held back.  The game itself was a lost cause: her team was too far gone to pay much attention to the questions, much less exercise logic; Clarke, meanwhile, was too consumed with naughty fantasies of slowly stripping away flannel button by button and green eyes clouded with passion.  The green eyes in question caught hers in the mirror every time she snuck a glance at the bar (which was often).  They flashed with an intoxicating combination of desire and mocking provocation.  Clarke continued to submit answers, partly out of habit, but mostly to have an excuse to loiter at the bar near Lexa.  On previous evenings, they typically filled these little interludes with conversation about their days, or at the very least, trashtalk.  Tonight, though, they conversed in little more than blatant stares and tension weighted with anticipation and transparent intent.

Clarke had long since given up on conversing with her delinquent friends in favor of ogling Lexa.  Lexa, fully aware of the effect she was having on Clarke, gleefully upped the ante.  Her bright eyes filled with mirth at Clarke’s choked reaction when she swept her hair over one shoulder or used her long fingers to toy with the straw in her water glass.  Clarke’s breaking point came just before the halftime break.  Lexa finished off the last of her beer, then, catching Clarke’s gaze with heavy-lidded eyes, deliberately licked the traces of foam from her lips and smiled.  Clarke was sure her groan was audible at the bar and she shifted restlessly to try to ease the sticky arousal that slicked her underwear.  Unable to resist any longer, she arched an insistent brow at Lexa and jerked her head toward the bar’s rear hallway.  She got to her feet without waiting to see Lexa’s response and made for the restrooms.  Lexa’s lips curved in a cheshire cat smile.  She hopped off her barstool and followed Clarke with alacrity.

Clarke was trying the door of the bathrooms when Lexa came up behind her.  She put her hands on Clarke’s hips and pressed her body close against Clarke’s back.  Clarke shivered at the wet kisses Lexa nuzzled into the side of her neck.  Her whimper escalated into a frustrated snarl at finding both doors locked. 

“Patio?” Lexa breathed, lips still intent on tracing Clarke’s thrumming pulse.

Clarke hummed eager assent.  She covered Lexa’s hands at her waist with her own to keep her close and quickly led them both through the door to the deserted enclosed patio.  The door had hardly banged shut behind them when Clarke whirled around and backed into the rough brick wall, pulling Lexa with her.  Her hands fisted in Lexa’s soft, worn flannel and she tugged Lexa’s mouth down for a heated, impatient kiss.  She groaned in relief at the sweet give of Lexa’s lips, so warm and pliant on her own.  Lexa’s hips pinned her against the building and her hands stoked the flame by smoothing gentle patterns along her sides.  Clarke’s tongue dragged insistently along Lexa’s bottom lip, surging inside to deepen the kiss when Lexa eagerly parted her lips. 

Lexa’s mouth drifted lower, sliding wetly along Clarke’s jawline.  Clarke’s ragged breaths clouded in the crisp night air.  “ _Fuck_ , Lex,” she swore, leaning her head back against the brick to give Lexa more access.  “I feel so attacked right now.  Your tight little ass in these jeans, tossing your hair like that—and you _know_ what you in that leather jacket does to me.” 

“Payback’s a bitch, Clarke,” she murmured.  Lexa felt Clarke’s eyeroll and she grinned and nipped lightly at her neck.  Clarke hissed at the sting.  “You knew exactly what you were doing with that little plaid skirt.”

Clarke snickered at the memory.  “You weren’t complaining in the backseat of my car that night.”

Lexa hummed appreciatively.  “Have you _seen_ your thighs?”  She sought Clarke’s mouth again in a deep kiss, sucking gently on Clarke’s tongue and absorbing her little moan.  Her hands crept under the hem of Clarke’s thin sweater and slowly edged higher until her fingers brushed lightly against the lace-covered underside of her breasts.  Clarke gasped and broke the kiss to catch her breath.  Lexa’s eyes gleamed wickedly in the dim light and she licked her lower lip.  “Although,” she whispered suggestively, “I like them even better wrapped around my ears.”    

Clarke whined and ground her pelvis restlessly against Lexa.  She tightened her fingers in Lexa’s shirt.  “Just… _God_ …I wanna rip this fucking flannel off you.” 

Lexa kissed her again and tutted against her lips.  “You better not, it’s my favorite.  In fact,” she reluctantly withdrew her hands from under Clarke’s top and gently pried Clarke’s fingers out of her shirt and held them in her own.  “We should probably get back in, halftime’s probably over.”

Clarke looked at her in disbelief, well aware that her own flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips mirrored Lexa’s.  “ _Now_?  Are you kidding me?” she said, trying not to think about the persistent, demanding ache between her legs.  Lexa nodded and began walking her toward the door.  “You’re not seriously blowing me off to finish a trivia game.”

Lexa gave her a cheeky, lopsided grin.  “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll blow you off later,” she replied, her voice redolent with promise.  “But yeah, I was working on a perfect score.  Besides,” she continued, her eyes sparking with laughter, “I kind of like you all needy and distracted.”

Clarke groaned loudly and thumped her head against Lexa’s shoulder.  Much as she hated to admit it, Lexa was probably right.  They’d been outside for a while, and her friends, drunk as they were, would start to notice her absence before too much longer.  “Ugh.  You suck.”  Lexa’s lips twitched and she opened her mouth to respond, but Clarke beat her to it.  “Oh my God, don’t even _say_ it,” she grumbled petulantly.  “Now that’s all I’ll be able to think about until this stupid game is over.”  Lexa’s grin turned smug and she reached for the door handle.

Nothing happened.

She frowned and tried again, but the door didn’t budge.  “Shit.  It’s locked.”  She jiggled the handle to no avail; the door rattled in the frame, but didn’t open.  Lexa pounded on the door with her fist and said over her shoulder to Clarke, “Can you call somebody on your team to get them to come open the door?  What’s her name, Octavia?”

“My phone’s still inside,” Clarke said helplessly.  She hated that a tiny part of her was glad that she couldn’t call her friends, because that would mean explaining Lexa.  Explaining Lexa would make this—whatever _this_ was—real, and then everything would change.  And as much as she ~~lo-~~ liked Lexa a lot, that would make it a relationship and Clarke didn’t do the R word.  Not anymore.  Besides, even if she _wanted_ it to be more—and she didn’t!—she knew Lexa didn’t want anything more, either, she’d as good as said so, hadn’t she?  It was a moot point anyway, because none of that was going to help them get the door unlocked.     

Clarke joined Lexa in banging on the door and shouting, but after a few minutes it was clear that no one inside could hear them over the bar noise.  Lexa beat her fist on the door one last time and gave up.  She turned to face Clarke. “Looks like we’re stuck.  So much for my perfect score,” she said with a rueful chuckle.  Clarke smiled with her.  “I’m sorry I got you into this.”

Clarke frowned.  “Why are you sorry?”

“It was my idea to come out here,” Lexa said sheepishly.

Clarke didn’t question the little pang Lexa’s hangdog face caused, she just took her hand and pulled her into a hug.  “Don’t be silly.  You didn’t make me come out here, I wanted to come,” she said softly.

Lexa’s fingers dug sharply into her waist.  Clarke looked up at her and caught her sly leer, and she realized what she’d said.  Clarke’s own cheeks reddened and she would have swatted Lexa if she hadn’t had her arms trapped.  “You’re so bad,” she giggled.  

Her laughter faded as Lexa’s expression turned darker, hungrier.  Lexa’s eyes zeroed in on her lips, and Clarke’s desire flared as if they’d never stopped.  She met Lexa halfway in a torrid, sloppy kiss, all tongue and clashing teeth.  Clarke’s fingers fumbled with the buttons of Lexa’s flannel, shaking so badly in her need to reach heated, bare skin that she almost tore them loose.  She didn’t even realize that Lexa had crowded her against the wall again until the sudden thump at her back forced her breath out in an “oof.”  Cold as it was, she craved Lexa’s skin on her own and she gladly raised her arms and disconnected their lips long enough to help Lexa peel her sweater over her head.  She spread Lexa’s flannel open and used the shirt to pull Lexa to her, and groaned with pleasure at the firm warmth of their breasts and bellies pressed together.  With Lexa sucking kisses over her collarbone and the heat of her hands splayed across Clarke’s hips and belly, Clarke didn’t even feel the cold brick scrape her back. 

Lexa’s mouth trailed a warm path through Clarke’s cleavage.  Clarke’s little noises of pleasure and the way her fingers threaded in Lexa’s hair to clutch her face to her chest spurred Lexa on.  Her hands slid upward to cradle Clarke’s breasts and tease them over her bra.  With Clarke’s encouragement, Lexa nudged one of Clarke’s bra straps off her shoulder and eased one boob free of its confinement.  She looked up at Clarke with eyes gone black with arousal.  Keeping eye contact, she lowered her mouth to lap and suck gentle kisses in increasingly smaller circles until she finally engulfed the taut peak between her lips.  Clarke’s fingers tightened in her hair and she bit her own lip to keep from crying out.

Clarke’s hips pulsed against Lexa’s solid weight, frantic for the pressure that would relieve the tight-wound tension at her core.  She tugged Lexa back up with both hands and locked their mouths in a dirty glide of tongues.  “Lex, please,” she panted, not caring how desperate she sounded after being worked up for what felt like hours.  Sweat beaded at her hairline despite the chill in the air.

Lexa’s breath puffed against Clarke’s cheek and her eyes shone in the moonlight with heat and some other emotion that Clarke was too far gone to name.  She kissed Clarke again, slow and deep.  She unzipped Clarke’s jeans and slipped a hand inside.  They both groaned when she brushed her fingers over Clarke’s underwear, Clarke at the sensation where she needed it most, and Lexa at the irrefutable proof of Clarke’s desire.  Lexa shifted her hand into Clarke’s panties, stroking nimble fingers through her slippery heat, lightly nudging her engorged little bud, but not enough to send her over the edge, not yet. 

Incoherent curses tripped from Clarke’s lips and she squeezed her eyes shut in concentration.  Her nails dug into Lexa’s back and her hips canted up to urge Lexa onward.  Lexa’s own breath came faster as she slicked her fingers with Clarke’s wetness.  She dipped one finger inside Clarke’s entrance and eased into her, thrusting firm and slow, gasping herself as she sank into Clarke’s warm silk. 

“Mmm, _fuck_ , that’s good,” Clarke moaned in Lexa’s ear.  “Can you…more…”

Lexa understood her inarticulate request and added a second finger.  Clarke’s guttural grunt of pleasure rippled over Lexa and she brought their mouths together in another kiss, her tongue plunging into Clarke’s mouth just as her fingers pumped deep inside—

The door banged open.  “Clarke?  Are you out here?  What are you doing— _oh_.”

Lexa’s hand froze and Clarke went rigid.  Her eyes flew open and over Lexa’s shoulder she saw Octavia standing in the open door with a hand over her mouth in shock.  “Shit!” she hissed.  Lexa yanked her hand out of Clarke’s pants and Clarke scrambled to cover herself with Lexa’s body blocking her from Octavia’s view.  Clarke’s brain was still fogged, and she blurted, “It’s not what you think.”

Lexa jerked as if she’d been slapped and then went utterly still for a beat.  She brushed Clarke’s hands away and backed out of her reach, haphazardly buttoning her shirt with shaky fingers.  She gave Clarke a look of deep hurt and reproach and walked back inside without a word.

“ _Fuck_!  Lexa!  Lexa, wait!”  Clarke called after her urgently.  She wasn’t thinking clearly, but she knew she’d fucked up as soon as the words came out.  It didn’t at all convey what she meant, how she really felt, but she knew from Lexa’s reaction that she’d taken her unthinking remark in the worst possible way.  _No no no no!  Fix this, Griffin!_  

She started to charge after Lexa until she realized that she was still half dressed and Octavia was gawking at her in disbelief.  She zipped up her jeans with a grimace and adjusted her bra as she hunted for her sweater.

“What the hell, Clarke?  You and Lexa?”  Octavia squawked, finally finding her voice.  “I mean, we all knew you had the hots for her, but _damn_ , girl!  How long you been hitting that?”  She held up a hand to give Clarke a drunken fist bump, but Clarke shrugged her off.

“Not now, O,” she said impatiently, tugging her sweater over her head and pulling it down as she hurried inside.  She caught up to Lexa at the bar.  She’d tossed bills on the counter to cover her tab and was pulling on her jacket to leave. 

“Lexa, wait,” she pleaded.  “That’s not what I meant, please hear me out.”  She put her hand on Lexa’s arm to try to stop her, but Lexa just pulled out of her grasp.

“It’s fine, Clarke,” she said distantly, not looking at her.  “I shouldn’t be mad at you, you were pretty clear about what this was from the start.  I’m the one that lost sight of things and let myself think we could be… _more_.”  Her lips twisted in a humorless parody of a smile.

“Lexa—”

Lexa continued as if she didn’t even hear Clarke.  “I should have known when you didn’t tell your friends about us,” she mused, casting a hand at Clarke’s table, now avidly following the unfolding drama.  “It was kind of hot, flirting and teasing and pretending to be strangers right under their noses.  But I should have realized that you were just keeping me at arm’s length. Of course you would.  Why would you want your friends to know that you were banging the pathetic trivia nerd?” she murmured bitterly. 

Clarke was in tears.  “Lexa, no, it wasn’t like that—” she insisted brokenly.

Lexa finally looked her in the eye.  “No, you were wrong, what you said outside,” she said quietly, her eyes so soft and filled with an emotion that Clarke knew to be heartbreak because she’d seen it there before.  Clarke’s gut wrenched with a stab of physical pain at having caused such hurt through her own stupidity.  “It was exactly what it looked like: just fuck buddies.  Friends with benefits, right?  It didn’t mean anything.”  She smiled that lopsided smile that usually made Clarke’s heart flutter, but this time it didn’t reach her eyes.  “I gotta go.”  She spun on her heel and shouldered her way out of the bar, not heeding Clarke’s frantic protests.

Clarke collapsed in Lexa’s seat at the bar and let her head fall in her hands.  “Goddammit, Lexa,” she choked out, tears streaking down her cheeks.  “I was telling the _truth_ —it _wasn’t_ what it looked like.  It was so much more.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at [barbieliberationarmy](https://barbieliberationarmy.tumblr.com/).


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